


Les aveugles verront

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-24
Updated: 2005-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:14:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1635890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis receives a visitor from the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Les aveugles verront

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Pun

 

 

_The French camp outside Calais on January 1558._

The King of France's Scottish general was sitting up, but leaning heavily on his arms, blond head averted from the candle flickering at his bedside, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Even in the pre-dawn darkness, Abernathy could see sweat beaded along the side of his face. There was no way the man could pass as fit, let alone fight, in such a state, yet he refused the drink which would bring him relief.

When Lymond's servant Herry arrived and was commanded to lay out the Comte's clothing and armor, Abernathy was aghast. "I swear, the pain has addled your mind, lad. Ye can barely stand. Do ye even ken what time it is?" His eyes darted to the boy pulling polished armor from the carved oaken trunk.

"Just before six, and time to take Nielles." Lymond rose to his feet and with slow, measured movements, went over to where his clothing lay, and began, with Herry's help, to begin donning the accoutrements of war. His movements were controlled and purposeful, but as the Aberdeen man watched, he noted with a growing sense of unease how Lymond waited for Herry to help him into each item, how his arm reaching for a sleeve was held out in slightly the wrong direction, how he was looking down, rather than meeting Abernathy's eyes.

The Scotsman waited until Lymond was dressed and the page had been sent to fetch his horse before essaying confrontation. "You're in so much pain, lad, ye can hardly get dressed. And now your sight is going. How do ye expect to lead your men into battle if it goes?" Lymond appeared to be meeting his eyes, but the man had become very experienced at hiding his blindness, and Abernathy could not be sure how far this particular attack had progressed. He placed a cup, wine mixed with something stronger, directly in Lymond's hand. "Drink this before you go. It will hold the pain at bay so ye aren't out there, riding blind."

"No," Lymond insisted. "I'll not march into battle like the men of Thrace, heads muddled with wine." Abernathy began to protest, but Lymond cut him off. "Let me slaughter a couple of Englishmen, and I'll be well again. Violence is a sure cure."

"But it could be hours before the actual fighting begins, and by that time--"

"I said no," Lymond snapped. "I am indebted to you for your care, but I am not a child nor one of your animals. I am my own master." His words were sharp and his eyes cold and hard as ice, but in the growing predawn light, Abernathy could see the man was sweating so profusely that his fair hair clung to his brow in dark stands. His hand, resting on the hilt of his sword, was trembling so hard that the entire length of the blade was wavering.

"If ye gan to battle without the drugs you'll end up with worse than a muddled head. You'll end up dead. But ye ken that don't ye."

Lymond's expression did not change and his eyes remained locked with Abernathy's, but there was a tension in him that told the older man he had struck on the truth.

"I dinna let ye take your life before, and I surely will no let ye do so now," he said and planted his wiry frame between Lymond and the door. "Knowing your mind, I canna let ye leave." He meant the last as a plea, but it came out as a challenge and instantly, Lymond's face, already pale, became more so, and his eyes narrowed.

For a moment, the mahout felt a thrill of fear. He knew that he was no match for Lymond, even in such a weakened state. But rather than lifting his sword, or even his fist, the blond man turned towards the door, swaying slightly, as if even this small change in direction destroyed his equilibrium, and called for the guards posted outside.

"Remove Mr Abernathy from my tent," he commanded them. "Neither he nor anyone else is to disturb me until I return."

The guards, handpicked by Lymond, obeyed instantly without question, and Abernathy found himself accompanied firmly outside onto the marshy, tent-covered plain. Despite his irritation at Lymond's high-handed treatment, he remained nearby, listening to the men gearing up for battle, and watching the entrance for Lymond to emerge. No sound came from within, and the entrance flap did not stir. There was no sign of the Comte.

As the sun rose, Strozzi's servant came to enquire after the missing Comte de Sevigny, and Abernathy intercepted him, telling him that his lordship was indisposed. A short time later, Strozzi himself came to enquire within, but such was the weight of Lymond's orders, that even the Italian captain was refused entrance. In a temper, Strozzi called out to the man within, demanding an explanation. Silence was his only answer. Abernathy watched it all with a growing sense of dread. Even if Lymond had seen reason and decided to stay back from the battle, his sense of professional pride would never have allowed him to do so without informing his men or certainly his fellow officers, de Guise and Strozzi.

The troops left for Nielles without the Comte de Sevigny, for which Archie issued a small prayer of thanks, but now other fears rose before his mind's eye. He imagined Lymond sprawled on the ground, helpless with pain, unable to reach the relief bringing wine or even call out. Or even worse--Lymond lying there, knife in hand, blood streaming from his cut wrists, waiting secure from discovery in the guarded tent as he ended his pain forever.

Despite the obvious futility of attempting to gain entrance, such dark premonitions impelled him to approach the tent. Lacking Strozzi's authority, he decided to try reasoning with the guards. He understood their orders, he said, and certainly the Comte was not a man to be crossed, but they were to keep people out until he returned, he reminded them. That implied that the Comte had intended to leave, but hadn't. Oughtn't someone to check in on him? If he were trouble, he would not thank them for keeping help from him.

Whatever lesson Lymond had used to compel obedience in these men it had been a harsh one, for they refused to deviate from his orders regardless of the circumstances. He tried calling out as Strozzi had, but there was no answer from within. His voice echoed around the empty camp, and he was overwhelmed with the sense of helplessness. He had taken it on himself to look after this brilliant, volatile, wounded man, but he had failed. There was no way for him or anyone else to reach Lymond this time and pull him back from the abyss.

* * *

He was acutely aware of his surroundings--a cool cloth on his brow, the silk brocade of the coverlet catching on the calluses on his palm, the sharp snap of the tent in the beating wind, the marshland sounds of frogs and crickets. Each sensation seemed to be sharpened when experienced through the clarifying prism of the pain which gripped his head in its vice-like embrace.

Conversely, pain blocked out thought. He couldn't remember getting undressed or finding his way to bed. But a sense of urgent matters calling him from the dark periphery of his mind caused him to reach out for his memories. They came rushing back in a sudden, painful torrent--the imperative that this campaign to retake Calais be a success. Yet here he was betrayed by his own body. And beyond that, the facts he had learned from Madame Jourda, the crushing truth of his parentage. At that, he reached again for the comfort of oblivion, but it had escaped him. He let out a groan of anguish.

As if in response to his cry, there was a sound of movement to the left of his bed. A cup was put to his lips and this time he lacked the strength to resist. He could almost feel the drugs flowing like thick honey through his body, closing off pain and memory. All concerns faded away until all he was aware of was a new cloth, soft and cool, being placed on his brow with a gentleness that reminded him more of his mother than of Abernathy. Then blessed oblivion enveloped him totally and he slept.

When he awoke again his sight had not returned, but the pain had diminished and he knew from long experience that the attack was nearing its end. "How long have I been sleeping?" he asked, pleased to hear that his voice sounded both steady and controlled.

"Nearly five hours," was the reply, and he froze at the sound. The voice was Scots, but not Archie. It was female. A chill ran up his spine. Every muscle in his body was strung tight and he would have given his sword hand to have been able to see. As it was, he turned towards his companion, ears strained. He knew that voice... but it couldn't be...

"You are trying to kill yourself, and I won't allow it."

The second comment by that soft, composed voice was all it took to be sure. "Christian? Am I dreaming...or dead?" he asked, trying to reconcile what he was hearing with the campaign tent and the rough voices of his men outside. He noted that his voice was no longer steady.

"Not dead," she replied, and he could hear the smile in her voice, "you remain firmly in the land of the living. Despite your efforts. When I found you, you were passed out on the floor."

"I wasn't trying to..." he began, but she cut him off.

"You promised not to lie to me, Francis," her voice formed his given name with such tender wistfulness that it caught him by surprise. "I only have a short time here, no games, please. How do you feel now?"

It was an effort to be candid about his health with anyone other than Archie, but he would be honest with this girl as she asked. He owed her that much.

She seemed pleased to hear the pain was lessening and insisted on some broth, to counter the effects of the drugs and give him some strength. Once he consented she was there, fluffing the pillows behind him, and helping him sit up. He could feel the heat of her body next to him, a warm corporal presence. "You are neither an apparition or a spirit," he said in wonder, grasping her hand and testing the solidity of the long fine-boned musician's hands in his own.

"You have powerful friends beyond the veil."

"You mean the Dame." Suspicion entered his voice, and his grip on her hand tightened. "Are you here at her bidding?"

"I would never harm you." The soft Scottish voice sounded hurt. "It happens that our aims are the same. I'm here to take care of you. Neither of us wish you to die here on a French battlefield," she explained, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

His grip on her hand in return was anything but gentle. "How do I know you're Christian, not some creation of the Dame's sent to manipulate me from beyond the grave?"

"Well, if I am a malevolent being, squeezing my hand off hardly seems and effective defense," she said, and he slackened his hold, but did not release her.

"I will not take food from a hand I don't trust implicitly. I've made that mistake before, and nearly paid with my life."

There followed a moment of thoughtful silence, then, "Will you finish the song you played for me once in my garden at Boghall? Or shall I finish it for you?" When he didn't answer, her clear voice began, "It was the Frogge on the wall, Humble-dum; huble-dum."

"Oh, Christ," Lymond said, lowering his head into his hands.

"Will you take the broth, then?" she asked and he took the bowl from her hands, and drank obediently. She left him to it, and he could hear her moving around the tent straightening things, humming absently. Then she returned to his side and put a cup in his hands. "No drugs, just wine," she explained. She pulled a stool up, rather than sitting on his bed, but he could feel her presence and all the unspoken words between them, and he drained his glass rather quickly.

This was Christian, of that he was convinced, and there were things he had to say before she disappeared. He reached blindly for her hand. She facilitated him by placing her hand in his. "I am so sorry, Christian--"

"There's no need."

"But I am, my dear Christian. I am so sorry for how I used you, how I endangered you, how I lead you to your death."

He could not see her face, but no more protests were forthcoming, so he pressed on. "If I had only--"

The sound of indignation coming from the stool halted him mid-sentence. "Don't you give others any credit for the results of their own choices? I knew very well who you were and what I was doing. It was my choice to help you. In fact, I insisted on it. You hardly forced me." She paused. "Or are you saying that you charmed me, a girl for whom you had no feelings, into helping you?"

He realized he was walking a dangerous line. She deserved honesty, but he wouldn't hurt her for the world. "I only meant that people are often drawn in by my charm, whether I will it, or no."

"Crowing like the cock on the dunghill, Francis?"

"Yes." He smiled, wondering if she could see it. "But know this, Christian. Had things not ended as they had, I would have fallen in love with you."

"Oh, Francis," she said, and this time the wistfulness had turned to longing, and the way she said his name warmed his blood in a way that only Philippa's presence did. "I wish it were so, but fate had other plans for you." Her hand brushed his hair off his forehead. "Like spun gold," she whispered. "You're even more handsome than I imagined, you know." Then she laughed, "I suppose I'm only feeding your arrogance."

Suddenly she drew back her hand as if burned. "I have to go now. I know things seem hopeless now, but you must not lose hope."

"Christian." He reached for her. "There's nothing left for me to live for. I beg you. Please, take me with you." She did not take his hand this time and he was left reaching into empty space.

"I would not an I could, my dear, but you are meant for another. You have a great density, and I wouldn't steal it from you. Know this. You will win Calais for the French and everything you desire will be yours. You must hold on long enough to receive it. You mustn't give up."

Then he felt his hand clasped and pressed to her cheek. Tears dampened his knuckles and her lips pressed the back of his hand in a fervent kiss. She whispered. "Abernathy is waiting outside."

 

 

 


End file.
